there's a different way of life, i can show you
by Keira-House M.D
Summary: He hadn't anticipated that she would look so young. Or … Clint gets sent to kill Natasha and makes a different call. Part 2 of my 'it's not the most conventional life, but that's why i love it' series.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the Marvel Cinematic Universe or any of its characters.**

**This is a sequel to '****don't let the darkness ruin the light' but only mentions Darcy briefly as the focus is more on Clint and Natasha. Darcy will be back in person for the next part of this series.**

* * *

"_I have a very specific skill set. I didn't care who I used it for, or on. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."_

* * *

Clint knew it wasn't going to be a regular mission as soon as he saw the file.

He knew who the Black Widow was. Every spy agency in the world did.

And he was supposed to take her out

Part of him wondered why they hadn't tried to entice her to their side. It would be tricky, but surely having someone of her calibre on their side would be worth it?

Still, it wasn't Clint's place to question the decisions of the SHIELD higher ups. He had high clearance, but he didn't know everything, and Fury certainly wasn't the sharing type.

It wasn't his place to question, but he still wondered.

* * *

It was when he was passing Phil's office on his way to the shooting range that he heard his handler and the Director discussing him.

"Are you sure you want Barton on this mission?"

Clint frowned at Phil's words, but he knew better than to take them immediately at face value, so he stayed quiet and kept listening.

"Agent Barton is our best sniper," Fury replied, "and from what our file says, its best that no one has to get close enough to risk hand to hand combat with this one."

"I know Barton's talents well," Phil agreed, "but I also know his personality. I don't think this is going to turn out like you planned, Director."

"Barton knows how to do his job."

Clint could hear Phil muffling a slight snort. So maybe he could be a little bit of a wildcard. And he _had_ been regularly accused of insubordination, although he liked to think he only rebelled against foolish orders (and it had probably saved his life a dozen times or more).

"Barton _will_ do his job," the Director repeated, as if he could make the universe bend to his will through the sheer force in his tone.

(and maybe he could, the Director could be seriously scary sometimes).

It seemed to Clint, however, that his instincts when he read the file had been right.

This wasn't going to be straightforward.

He shrugged, though, and continued on towards the shooting range, whistling the theme tune to _Dog Cops_ as he went.

It might be a difficult mission, but it wasn't likely to be life-changing.

* * *

Three weeks later and Clint was starting to get frustrated.

He was used to long-term missions with plenty of time spent in one spot watching a mark. He could deal with that and he liked people watching.

But the Black Widow was like a ghost.

He'd followed her from Paris, through what seemed to him to be most of Europe. He'd catch a brief glimpse of her red hair (and really, how confident did a spy and assassin have to be to keep her hair such a distinctive colour?) one day, chase after her and find nothing but thin air and a group of tourists who couldn't help him at all.

Now they were back in France, in some tiny village in the countryside that he hadn't even bothered to learn the name of.

Darcy, at least, would get something out of this long mission. He had been bringing her keyrings (small, light and easy to transport, even when his travelling arrangements were unorthodox) from all the places he had visited for years as souvenirs, and she strung them up around her room along with her fairy lights. With everywhere he had been these past few weeks, chasing after the Black Widow, he now had nearly a dozen new ones for her.

He sighed, though, as he kept watch from the apartment he'd rented for a week. Eleven new keyrings for Darcy was all well and good, but he'd still had no luck with his actual mission.

But then something caught his eye, a flash of red.

Clint was excellent at noticing little details, a skill that was essential in his line of work.

So three weeks of watching the same person, even if he only caught glimpses of her, taught him a lot. He knew the shape of her figure, the shade of her hair colour (she never seemed to dye it, despite the fact that it would help her immensely as a disguise), and the way she walked (even when she changed her gait to throw off any tails).

He knew that there was something about her that seemed agitated, like she didn't quite know what to do next.

And in all the time he'd been following her, she had never once harmed someone, nor had she disappeared for a mission.

It made him wonder if she was evading others rather than just him.

He didn't bother with the stairs, hopping out of the widow onto the roof, and crouching low as he ran across it to jump down to the street.

Like most spies, he had mastered the art of moving quickly without ever seeming to watching eyes like he was in a hurry. Nevertheless, it was difficult to keep up with the Black Widow, who moved around the town like someone who had been living there for decades.

He kept up with her for nearly three hours before he lost her in the busy plaza square.

"Damn," he muttered to himself as he turned to head back to his apartment.

She was good. _Extremely_ good.

Another day gone with no real results. He wasn't looking forward to his check-in with Phil.

* * *

That evening, just after he had fallen asleep, he was startled back awake by a soft creak, the sound of someone very light-footed moving around his room.

He was out of bed, with a gun pointed at the intruder, in seconds.

It was _her_.

He knew it. Even in the darkness, even though he had never seen her properly up close.

The Black Widow.

"You've been following me."

Her Russian accent was almost entirely unnoticeable, and he only heard it because he had trained himself to pick up on such things. The file he had been given listed her likely country of birth as Russia, but she had clearly learnt to hide the accent when needed.

He nodded in response to her words. There was no point in denying it – he was sure enough of his own abilities to know it would have taken her a while to work out who he was, but he was sure she'd noticed someone was chasing her around Europe almost immediately.

She was no amateur after all.

He moved slowly and carefully, and switched one lamp on. He didn't want the whole room illuminated, but he thought it was best to get a closer look at the infamous assassin, since it didn't seem like she was going to stab, shoot or otherwise murder him right now.

She was about 5'3, with long red (almost scarlet) hair. Tense, the way a lot of people in their line of work were. At first glance she didn't exactly look dangerous, but Clint knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

Besides, he'd read up on her – he knew all about the assassinations she had been responsible for, and how she had destabilised regimes with just a few words and a smile. There was more, he was sure, that SHIELD was unaware of, but even a glance at the file could have told him that the Black Widow was not to be underestimated.

Still, he hadn't anticipated that she would look so young.

There had been no age on her file, but the photos attached, taken from a party where she had been responsible for two separate deaths, had shown a woman who appeared to be approaching thirty.

The person in front of him – no artfully applied makeup, no carefully chosen dress or perfectly coiffed hair – looked to be barely twenty years old.

"So you're the Black Widow," he said, trying to sound casual but watching her closely for any sign that she was about to attack.

"You can call me Natasha," she offered.

Not her real name, he was sure, but it was certainly easier than her code name, and it seemed to suit her.

"Natasha, then. And yes, I have been following you. I'm sure you worked that out a while ago."

Her mouth quirked up very slightly, "it took a little longer to figure it out than usual, I must admit."

There was a hint of admiration in her voice and Clint couldn't help but feel a little bit proud.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" she asked after a moment, eyeing the gun still in his hand with more apathy than interest.

He cocked his head as he watched her. There was a defiance in her stance, and a twitching in her hand that told him her instincts were telling her to reach for a weapon.

Instincts she was _ignoring_.

And that was interesting.

He couldn't quite understand her motives.

She had broken into the apartment, seemingly without any intention of fighting him, though in a close quarters match between them there was a good chance she could kill him. She hadn't prevented him from reaching for his gun, nor had she produced any weapons of her own (though he did not doubt that she had an arsenal on her person).

But it didn't feel exactly like she was seeking death, because if that was the case then she would simply have come out of hiding and allowed him to shoot her from a distance.

Instead, she had come to him and made him look at her up close.

Did she know for sure that such a move would make him hesitate in following his orders, or was it simply a calculated risk?

"Aren't you going to kill me?" she asked again.

He was supposed to kill her.

He found that he didn't want to. It was a crazy decision, really, considering who she was, but he felt like he should go with his gut feeling.

"No," he told her finally, "I'm not going to kill you … I'm going to offer you a job."

She let out a bark of laughter, the sound an unexpectedly sweet contrast to her deadly nature, "you have the authority to do that?"

He had no authority at all to offer her anything. But Phil would listen to him, and Fury _might_ give him ten seconds to explain himself before he decided whether or not to send him to Siberia for the next ten years. Despite the headaches it would cause, though, it would certainly be a coup to have all the intel and skills that the Black Widow could offer them.

He shrugged, "we'll work out the details later."

"Why should I trust you?" she asked sceptically, "I could end up locked away for the rest of my life, drugged and tortured by your government for information."

"I didn't kill you," he reminded her, relaxing his stance slightly in attempt to appear more open to her.

"That just makes you stupid," she retorted, though she sounded more confused than annoyed.

"Do you _want_ me to kill you?" he asked, suddenly serious.

He didn't think she had a death wish. Perhaps a sudden attack of conscience, but not the desire to get herself killed. Still, he couldn't be completely sure he wasn't wrong – people were usually fairly easy to read, but this one was … challenging, to say the least.

She didn't answer straight away. In fact, she looked almost uncomfortable as she considered his question.

Clint wasn't bothered by the silence. He only watched as her facial expressions shifted quickly, the changes microscopic and almost invisible. He imagined she was feeling a myriad of emotions.

"I've got red in my ledger," she said eventually, her voice soft, "I'd like to wipe it out."

Clint had met, known, and fought both with and against many people who had switched sides. Some for money, or revenge, or safety, or even love. Very few had changed their allegiance due to principles, despite what they might have claimed.

He looked at the woman in front of him, however, and saw a person who had never known anything but violence and intrigue. He saw someone who had realised that maybe, just maybe, she had the chance to use her skills for something good.

(or at least for something better than the life she currently led – Clint had no illusions about all of SHIELD's choices or their morals, though he did believe in their core values).

He sighed and decided to be honest, "I can't make you any promises on behalf of SHIELD or my government. If you come back with me then I can't guarantee your freedom or your safety. What I do promise is that I will do my very best to persuade SHIELD that you are an asset, not an enemy. I will vouch for you and the sincerity of your defection."

"Why would you do that?" she asked, suspicion colouring her tone, "why would you risk so much for someone you don't know?"

Clint thought of Phil, and of the chance his handler had taken on him, "because someone once did the same for me. I was headed down a bad path, but he saw something in me and offered me a job. I've never regretted saying yes, not once."

He stepped forward, slowly, to show her he wasn't trying to be threatening, and offered her his hand.

"There's a different way of life, Natasha," he told her gently, "I can show you … if you'll let me."

She looked untrusting, a little hostile … but also almost hesitant, as if she didn't quite trust that he was being genuine.

Then, she seemed to take a breath, and she stretched out her own hand to grasp his.

Her hand was small but her grip was firm. And as they shook hands Clint felt like his entire world had shifted, like this was the beginning of a new stage in his life.

No matter what would come in the future, he was sure it would be interesting.

* * *

"Which bed do you want?" Clint asked.

The only apartment available on such short notice had, oddly, been a one bedroom with twin beds. A weird set-up, but Clint had simply been thankful to actually _have_ a roof over his head and a real bed, no matter what the size – so many of his missions necessitated creative sleeping arrangements that he never took a bed for granted.

Natasha's eyes widened slightly in momentary surprise, though it lasted barely a second. Clearly, she wasn't used to being given any choices, even in simple things like this.

He imagined her childhood would make his look like the rose-tinted ideal.

She pointed to the bed furthest from both the door and window. It was the one he would have chosen, but he wasn't about to complain if it made her unclench even slightly.

He nodded his agreement, flicked off the lamp and climbed into the other bed without another word to her.

Clint had made a big decision in refusing to kill Natasha, but she had made an even more significant one in defecting from the only life she had ever known based solely on the promise of the man sent to kill her.

He imagined she needed some time to process.

He spent the whole night contemplating what they should do next.

Though he closed his eyes and let his breathing go even in a mimicry of slumber, he wasn't about to actually fall asleep.

He felt like he and Natasha had made a connection, but he wasn't a complete fool and he couldn't discount the possibility (however small he thought it was) that she was playing him in order to infiltrate SHIELD.

He really hoped that wasn't the case.

Natasha's presence was going to cause a lot of issues in getting out of the country and back to SHIELD. Separately, they would probably manage it easily enough, but together they might catch the attention of one of the many spy agencies.

They had to get back quickly, which meant a plane, but he couldn't call for a SHIELD transport, not when he was bringing the Black Widow back with him without even trying to ask for permission.

It would have to be covert, and probably uncomfortable. But that was ok. He had dealt with worse and he was sure Natasha had too.

* * *

"So how flexible are you?" he asked the next morning, with a fairly decent plan in mind, "because it's going to be a seriously tight fit getting us back to the US."

Natasha moved quickly, contorting her limbs in a way that would make most of the acrobats Clint had worked with in his youth jealous, and folding herself so she seemed to take up practically no space at all.

"No problems there then," he murmured to himself.

Natasha unfurled her body and gave him the tiniest of smiles, "I like ballet," she half-whispered, almost shyly, like it was a secret.

And, honestly, he shouldn't feel protective of a world-class assassin who probably knew ten different ways to kill him using just the mug on the side table by his bed. But he kind of wanted to hug her right now because he had a terrible feeling that this might be the first time she'd ever admitted out loud that she enjoyed something.

"Be ready to go in half an hour," he said instead, knowing she'd probably stab him if he tried to hug her, "do you need to pick anything up from where you've been staying before we leave?"

She shook her head but said nothing in explanation. He assumed she either didn't like to give away any hint of personal information, or didn't want to say that she had no items of any sentimental value – possibly both.

"My phone's secure, but I don't want to call my handler until we're back on US soil," he told her, "so I'm not sure what will be happening until I can get us back to my apartment."

"You do not want him to tell you to follow your orders and kill me?" she asked.

He shook his head, "He'll hear me out … probably. You'll like Phil," he promised, "he's pretty much unflappable … and very hard to make fun of too – I once saw him in full drag for a mission and he took it so seriously I couldn't even bring myself to laugh at him."

He paused for a moment, "I think the only time I've ever seen him flustered is when his fanboy crush on Captain America gets mentioned – it's adorable."

"He sounds …" Natasha trailed off, clearly not quite sure what to say.

"Oh he's a top agent," he explained, "knows twenty ways to kill someone with just a paperclip – or so the rumour mill goes."

"I know twenty-one," Natasha offered.

Clint laughed, "of course you do."

He could almost picture it, Phil and Natasha having a discussion over tea about the most efficient methods of death by paperclip.

He really did love his crazy, unconventional life.

* * *

Their trip back to New York was … fine.

There was that one minor explosion, and he thought he might need to add more stretches to his workout routine because his back kind of ached from being stuck in a _very_ compact space for about ten hours.

And then there was the dog they'd accidentally set loose.

But, really, the dog had been the best part, friendly and enthusiastic.

Clint loved lively dogs, but he wasn't entirely sure Natasha did, if the glare she was still levelling at him was anything to go by.

They made their way to Clint's apartment first.

It would make a better impression if they weren't both sleep deprived and wearing clothes that hadn't been washed in days.

Besides, he needed some time to come up with a better reason for his failure to kill his assigned target than simply, _she looked tired, she looked like someone searching for redemption_.

To be fair, that excuse might fly with Phil, who had a soft spot for saving lost causes, but Director Fury would certainly need more than a little persuasion.

They were nearly up to Clint's floor (the top one, obviously, with the best vantage point and a fantastic view of the city), when one of the doors opened and Mrs Miller stepped out.

Clint's favourite tenant was eighty-two years old and five foot two. She looked like a stiff breeze would knock her over.

But appearances were deceiving. Mrs Miller had once been one of the CIA's very best agents, and even in her retirement he knew she was still spry and sharp enough to cause plenty of trouble.

"You look like hell, Clinton" she said matter-of-factly as she eyed him, before her interested gaze turned towards Natasha.

"We were just going up–".

"You must come in and have some coffee and cake," Mrs Miller spoke more to Natasha than to Clint.

Natasha's head turned infinitesimally towards him, clearly wanting his opinion on whether or not Mrs Miller was likely to put poison in her coffee.

(they really were a paranoid bunch).

"Sure," he agreed tiredly, because he knew full well that they wouldn't get away until Mrs Miller had interrogated them both to her satisfaction.

Clint watched Natasha carefully as she entered Mrs Miller's apartment and took in every part of the room. In five seconds he had no doubt that she had figured out all the possible exits and at least a dozen items close to hand that could be used as weapons.

He could understand that. It was something he did himself.

He settled himself down onto one of the sofas and she sat next to him, clearly considering him less threatening than Mrs Miller.

(part of him felt that was a victory … the other part just felt a little bit insulted).

Mrs Miller turned to him with one of her scary smiles, the one that looked nice but actually just told him he'd better do what she said or his life would become very difficult very quickly.

"Why don't you go and make us some coffee, Clinton. And I've just baked biscuits – you and your friend look like you could use a snack."

She clearly wasn't trying too hard to be subtle. It was blatantly obvious she wanted to talk to Natasha alone.

Clint was loathe to leave her. He was sure she could handle Mrs Miller, but he didn't want her to be uncomfortable.

Natasha nodded, though. She looked neither happy nor unhappy by the turn of events, perhaps just a little resigned.

So Clint got up and headed towards the kitchen, hoping that nothing would go wrong.

Hoping he wouldn't come back to find anyone bleeding.

* * *

One hour, numerous cups of coffee and three (or rather seven, for Clint) biscuits each later, they had left Mrs Miller's apartment without anyone making threats or throwing knives.

And now Clint had to deal with the reality of his decision to bring an infamous assassin home with him.

Now, he stared at the phone on his side-table.

"You have been looking at that phone for seven minutes," Natasha told him, "are you waiting for a call?"

He shook his head, "I need to call my handler. I had to sacrifice my phone for that little explosion we used to distract the guards at the airport so I've missed my check-in."

Natasha tensed, "your handler will punish you for this?"

"What?" he looked in confusion at Natasha, only to realise that for a Red Room assassin, any mistakes or deviations had probably been met with far worse that an exhausted sigh and a pile of forms to be completed in triplicate.

"No," he promised quickly, "I'm just trying to figure out how to explain … all of this."

"Well if things go wrong," she said, "I can be out of the country long before any of them catch up to me."

He snorted, "I don't doubt that. And I think Mrs Miller would probably help you – she doesn't normally take to people so quickly."

"She is an impressive woman. And she promised to make some pryaniki for me."

Clint should probably be more worried about what a friendship between Natasha and Mrs Miller could lead to, especially considering the latter's longstanding friendship with Peggy Carter (who she visited weekly).

But he couldn't continue to ponder the terrifying thought of Natasha, Mrs Miller and Peggy Carter in the same room.

He had a call to make.

The phone rang once, twice.

"You missed your check-in," Phil said, "… twice."

His voice sounded even more dispassionate than usual, which Clint knew meant his handler had been genuinely worried.

"Sorry," he muttered, "my phone got a bit … blown up, and we had to make a quick getaway."

"_We_?"

Clint cursed his slip. He was usually more alert, but the events of the last few days had thrown him a little. Still, Phil would have found out soon enough, so it might as well be now.

"Well, I … uh, neutralised the threat."

He could hear Phil's deep sigh echo down the phone, as if he knew there was more to Clint's statement.

"You took out the target?"

"… no, sir … I sort of ... well, I recruited her."

The line went quiet, and Clint, beginning to doubt his earlier assessment, prepared himself for a serious dressing down and an order to do his job as he had been instructed to.

But then, to his shock, Phil burst out laughing.

"Sir?" he questioned, "… Phil?"

More laughter followed.

Natasha, who was sitting so still in the corner that she could have been a statue, arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in his direction.

Clint just gave a baffled shrug, as he couldn't explain Phil's behaviour. He could count the number of times he had seen his handler laugh on one hand and have fingers to spare – it was difficult enough to coax a smile out of the man.

"I told him," Phil said, no longer laughing but still amused, "I warned the Director that this wouldn't go the way he expected."

"You knew what I was going to do?" he asked, because Phil was an amazing agent, but Clint didn't see how he could have predicted _this_ turn of events.

"Not quite," his handler admitted, "but I've looked at the Black Widow's recent patterns and I had an inkling that she was perhaps a little disillusioned with her current work. And you are good at seeing to the heart of a person, Clint."

"I'm not sure the Director is going to find it all as funny as you do."

"I'll talk to him," Phil promised, "I'll call you to come in for a debrief, in maybe a day or two, once the Director has gotten all of the … irritation out of his system."

Clint couldn't quite believe it has been so easy to get Phil on side.

"You trust my actions?" he asked, "just like that?"

"Clint, I wouldn't trust you to pick a restaurant – not after the food poisoning in Kiev … and Amsterdam … and Chicago. I wouldn't trust you to go into an animal shelter alone and not come out with a three-legged, one eared dog. But people – you _know_ people."

Clint felt himself going a little pink, "Phil, you're making me blush."

"Don't let it go to your head," Phil warned him, "your attempts at filing your paperwork are still frustratingly poor, your habit of hiding in the vents has half the trainees convinced the building is haunted, and I'm fairly sure you'd die of malnutrition if you didn't eat in the cafeteria most lunchtimes when you aren't on a mission."

Natasha, who had inspected every inch of his apartment on their arrival there, and who had wrinkled her nose at the bare fridge and cupboards, nodded her agreement, having moved from across the room and come to perch next to him on the arm of his couch.

Clint just made a muffled noise that was meant to reflect his offence at Phil's comment, but he didn't disagree.

After all, nothing Phil had said was wrong.

"Lie low," Phil continued, "and stay at your apartment until I contact you again."

"Thank you, Phil," Clint replied, truly and sincerely grateful for his handler's assistance.

"Don't thank me quite yet," Phil warned him, "the Director will probably agree with your actions eventually, but he'll find a way to make his … displeasure at your methods clear. You'll probably have some dull missions for a while."

"Right," he supposed he should have expected that, "see you in a few days."

"Stay safe, Clint," Phil said, before he hung up the phone.

When he turned to look at Natasha, she was gazing out of the window, eyes slightly unfocussed, as if she had been lost in her own thoughts the whole time.

It was clearly a front, as no self-respecting spy would tune out a conversation about their own future, but it was nice of her to try and give him an illusion of privacy.

"Phil's going to talk to Director Fury," he explained, "I imagine you'll have to be interviewed, and go through the normal vetting procedure when someone jumps ship to join us … but I think it will be ok in the end."

"You trust your handler very much," Natasha observed.

"With my life," he told her, "Phil's one of the good guys."

"One of the good guys," she mused, "I'm not sure someone like me could ever be like that."

He didn't deny her words straight off. She'd done terrible things, just like he had, and there was no guarantee that she'd stick it out at SHIELD. False promises did no good, not for them.

"What you'll be is your choice," he told her instead, "whether good or bad. But for what it's worth, I hope you stay."

"Hmm," she murmured softly, "I think I might."

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.**


End file.
